AZT - 1 The infamous Bathtub Springs.

This first stretch of Section One wasted no time testing us.  We climbed nearly 3,000 feet in just six relentless miles, the trail dragging us upward toward Miller Peak, its summit brushing the sky at just over 9,000 feet.  As brand-new hikers, we kept stopping - tightening straps, loosening buckles, shuffling gear from one pocket to another - though deep down we knew we were mostly just trying to catch our breath.

Spring had erupted across the mountains. Cacti lit the hillsides with bright blooms, and the air carried that warm, desert-after-winter scent.  We wound past abandoned mines sealed with iron bars and past stories we never would hear.  Long stretches of slick, loose rock forced us to watch every step to keep our footing as the narrow single-track clung to the side of steep slopes that dropped away sharply beside us. One misstep and the trip would be over before it even really started.

Campsites were scarce, and the trail gave us no choice but to keep climbing - up, up and up some more. Exhaustion had fully set in by the time we finally reached a spot flat enough to call home for the night.  As the wind whipped around us and the sun slipped behind the distant ridgelines, we set up camp and hunkered down.  It was our first night camping on the trail, tired and windblown, but surrounded by the wild quiet of the mountains.  And despite everything, it felt incredible. 

Morning on the trail greeted us with a crisp chill, the kind that makes oatmeal taste gourmet and coffee feel like a survival essential.  Packs loaded, spirits high, we pushed forward, knowing that today we'd meet the infamous Bathtub Springs, a place we had read about and imagined for weeks. "Who put this here and why?" were questions we wondered. "How did someone get this in the middle of the woods?" Somewhere ahead, hidden in the wilderness, was a century-old cast-iron bathtub dragged up a mountain in 1908 by a determined prospector, Max "Bomb" Kurtchner, who apparently thought, "Sure, I'll haul a 300 lb. tub uphill with a mule. Easy." Meanwhile, here we were huffing along with our gear,  most lightweight to ultralight, and complaining about the weight of our backpacks. 

After miles of anticipation, we finally reached it: the legendary tub.  It sat beneath the Douglas fir trees like some relic from a forgotten frontier.  Filled with leaves, pine needles, algae, mysterious floaties, and bugs that looked like they'd evolved specifically for this ecosystem.

But this was my moment.  I had a Sawyer squeeze filter I'd been dying to try out. "Dirty water? No problem," I thought, "We have survival gear!"

We filled the pouch, flipped it upside down, waited....

And Waited....

And absolutely nothing happened.

We squeezed it, because it is a Sawyer squeeze

Still nothing.

We back-flushed. Nothing.

At one point, I think I gave it a pep talk.

After an hour of fiddling, twisting, shaking, and borderline-craziness, we managed to achieve...

One drop every few minutes. That was it....How would I survive if I really needed it?

Luckily, we weren't desperate for water.  We dumped the "bath Brew", packed up, and carried on uphill just a little more.  At least that's what we kept telling ourselves.

Day three arrived with the magical promise of a hot bath and our own beds waiting at the end.  Our bodies feltlike they'd been in a low-stakes bar fight, but with a well-timed cocktail of Ibuprofen and Tylenol, we powered onward. 

The trail led us down the backside of Miller's Peak, the sheltered Douglas fir forest giving way to towering ponderosa pines and then opening into a wide, golden grassland.  The landscape felt wild and enormous - broken windmills leaning like forgotten sentinels, empty water cisterns rusted by time, and free-range cows meandering around like we were the strange ones there. We sided stepped cow pies like it was a competitive sport, talking about everything we'd learned so far and feeling that mix of exhaustion and pride that only comes from miles well earned.

Then the trail opened up, and we spotted it: Parker Canyon Lake, shimmering in the distance like some reward screen at the end of a video game. And there,  exactly where we hoped, was our car, patiently waiting at the trailhead just as we had left it three days earlier.  Taking off our boots felt like a religious experience; flip flops never felt so luxurious. 

We tossed our packs into the trunk, called our families to report that we were, in fact, still alive and headed to retrieve the other car at the Coronado Memorial Visitor Center - two tired hikers with a great story and just a few more blisters. 

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